The Best In Me
by moonlessmondays
Summary: "He looks up to his mother when she asks him the question, but for the life of him, he doesn't know the answer. Or even if he does know, he cannot explain it. He finds it hard to search for the right words.But if his mind cannot conjure up words to answer to his mother, his heart certainly did, and he finds himself whispering, 'She brings out the best in me.'"


He watched his all too American wife carry on a conversation with his sister. From his line of sight, he could tell that his wife was indeed enjoying herself, even though he knew that she wasn't particularly comfortable. Even a year after their marriage, she would still find it hard to fit in at times, and she would complain to him-at times-that she felt like an intruder, an outsider. Of course, he would refute and tell her that she had never been an outsider, she never could be. It was as if, despite her American upbringing, she was made to be a Countess. His very own countess, nevertheless.

Her gaze lifted up to him, as if she knew that he was watching her, and she smiled. He knew how much his admittance of his love meant to her. It had taken him longer to admit to her, even though he had been sure of it for quite some time. Not quite a year, not that long, no.

He felt guilty of it—of not telling her right away and for the reasons he had pursued her in the first place. He felt like a heel for marrying her solely for money, and for her knowing it, but he'd made up for it. And she had always told him that she didn't mind, that it didn't matter, but he still felt guilty. After all, she had given herself and her heart to him fully, without conditions, without inhibitions. And for him to make her wait so long before telling her that she had come to mean to him as much as he meant to her felt cruel.

He gave her a smile back, a soft one, a small one, that one only reserved for her when he was adoring her beauty from afar, and she knew it. He knew she had caught him one too many times as he watched her through the mirror as she rubbed cream in her hands, telling him about her day. He would give her the same smile then, completely awed by her careless beauty.

Before he even knew it, he was making his way down to her and his sister. He sat down beside her on the seat, ignoring all the propriety about how a married couple should act. Their marriage was not and could never be just a social obligation, anyway. It was a marriage of love. He snaked his arm around her waist, making her look at him over her shoulder with a coy smile. Both his sister and she raised their eyebrows at him, but he only shrugged, not really seeing anything wrong about it.

Rosamund opened her mouth to say something, but he spoke before her thoughts form into actual words.

"There are worst things to be gossiped about, Rosamund," he said, with a slight mirth in his tone. "I am not worried about being seen in tomorrow's papers when the headline would be about me being in love with my wife, and actually showing it." And as if to make a point, he dropped a kiss on his wife's temple making a wide grin appear on her face.

Rosamond laughed. "Well, normally I would be admonishing you for such a behavior, but…" she paused for effect. "It is not too often that I get to tell Mama that I am right."

Both he and his wife laughed at this, and he was only too glad to have had heard her musical laughter drift into his ears.

They parted again, throughout the night, but never for too long. Somehow, they would always find themselves gravitating towards each other. At one point, as he sat with his Mother and listened to her drone on and on about how American his wife was, and how she was too much of everything, he even found himself locking eyes with her and conversing with her, without words, knowing that even without verbalizing anything, their looks had conveyed a thousand more meanings.

"Robert," his mother repeated, waking him from his reverie. "Really, Robert, must you conduct yourself like a lovelorn teenager? You two just could not behave properly."

"Oh please, Mama," he scoffed, as his eyes gallivanted towards his wife again. He could hear, of course, his mother speaking to him, but he could not understand a word and he wished not to, for he was truly and thoroughly caught up in his wife's beauty. She was, despite of what his Mother said, a true lady. And she was _his_ lady.

"Oh For God's sake Robert," his Mother moaned, pained, after seeing that his attention had drifted to his wife again who was standing across the room, conversing with the Duchess. "I really cannot see what you saw in that American girl, anyway."

He looks up to his mother when she asks him the question, but for the life of him, he didn't know the answer. Well, he knew it wasn't really a question anyway. Not one he was meant to answer at all. His mother would be all too happy to draw her own conclusion of his American girl, no matter how much Robert would defend her.

And, besides, after a year of marriage, Robert still didn't know what to say. He couldn't tell his mother why he chose Cora in the end, no matter how much she bemoaned about it. He didn't know the answer. Or even if he did know, he could not explain it. He found it hard to search for the right words. And even then, he wasn't too sure his mother would understand. But if his mind could not conjure up words to answer to his mother, his heart certainly did, and he found himself whispering, "She brings out the best in me." He smiled wistfully, realizing all too well how his wife managed to bring out the best in him with her love.

And she did love him, he noted happily. She really did.


End file.
